Okay, survey says:
Tell us specifically what you learned in physical therapy!
All right, all right! I'll tell you, I promise...
But first, you really should know that you still haven't read half of what's been bothering me. I didn't want to overwhelm you, but even I didn't even realize how many symptoms I had that could be addressed in Pelvic Floor/Core rehab until I was asked to sit down and fill out the new patient questionnaire.
I have already told you about my urinary issues, but not the um, my rectal difficulties. "Thank goodness!" I thought several times while checking boxes on the survey. I didn't have to check off a lot of the boxes next to any of the problems concerning sexual activity. I felt grateful not to have to admit to peeing on myself while sleeping or having sex, and thankful not to suffer from chronic pain of any kind, or to have parts of me hanging out that shouldn't be.
I had noticed that several things were not returning to "normal" after my third child was born, including some issues with my rectum. This is so uncomfortable for me to write about that I feel the need to indulge in a tangent before I proceed.
The baby himself was practically perfect in every way. Actually, his eyes were very bloodshot at birth and the pediatrician who saw him his first office appointment said it was because I had pushed him out so hard and fast. When I tell people I pushed my ten pound baby out very rapidly because I was very angry, they usually say something like "No doubt you were, honey!"
This is a misunderstanding I usually don't bother to correct. I hadn't been angry at the usual suspects: not at the baby for being so big, nor at myself for getting into this situation a third time, not at G-d, my husband, or life in general. No, it was a very specific anger directed at one D. Schwartz, M.D. who, 6 hours after I had checked into Christ Hospital in active labor, began his on-call duty by sticking two latex covered fingers into my vagina, first, to break my water and then, to measure how dilated I was: "only 8". Next, he palpated my belly to estimate the size of the baby I was about to deliver, and rather breezily announced that he was going to scrub up and would see me across the hall, because the baby was "too big" and he was going to perform a Caesarean section.
My birth plan was to deliver this baby naturally. I was a big fan of the Bradlee Method, having used it to deliver 9 pound, 12 ounce Sam two years previously, and I had been looking forward to a repeat performance. The two pregnancies had been virtually identical, and the babies had almost the same exact due date, just two years apart. The only differences I could detect were that this baby was a bit more vigorous in his movements in utero, and he seemed to be in much less of a hurry to come out. Sam had us racing to the hospital almost two weeks before my due date, and then he was born within two hours of our arrival there. Now, Isaac was four days past due, and so big and heavy that I had been going in for a check every other day for two weeks.
I had deliberately met with and been examined by everyone in the obstetrics office but Dr. Schwartz, so naturally the one doctor in the practice who was unfamilar with my pregnancy was the one to show up for the birth. Now, I was so upset by his casual dismissal of my birth plan that I became enraged. I announced my decision: I would stay put and continue to labor naturally. Then, a moment later, I said "I'm going to have this baby now," to which Paul and the nurse replied sweetly, almost in unison, "that a girl, yes, you are, now that's the spirit" or something to that effect. "No," I said, "I mean RIGHT NOW! I mean I have to push. Please, help me! Hold my legs! The baby's coming out right now!"
Someone was dispatched to tell Dr Schwartz to put on his catcher's mitt and get back to my room. Indignant, I decided I would have someone else catch this baby before he even had time to double back down the hallway. And then, in a sort of tantrum, I pushed with all my might and pop, out came the head of an angry, ten pound two ounce brand new baby boy. I only knew Dr. Schwartz was there because he said "this isn't a newborn, it's a three month old!", and I said "maybe in YOUR family, Dr. Schwartz, but in my family, that's what a newborn looks like." Then he told me that he had cut me "just a bit" to help the baby come out and that he was sewing me up and apologized if it hurt. "Believe me," I said "what you are doing is NOTHING compared to what just happened" which led to this part of my story being misundertstood for the first time.
When you first return home after having vaginally delivered a baby, you may have stitches, as I had. But whether or you not you have had a episiotomy or a tear, or simply stretched yourself to the limit and beyond, you are certainly going to be very tender. Passing the first bowel movement after childbirth is consequently a rather dreadful thing. Mine was no exception. It was not only scary; it was stuck. Very gingerly, I inserted a finger into my vagina and felt my bowel pressing against my vaginal wall. I pushed tentatively and was relieved to feel the obstruction give way, as the bowel movement continued in a proper, downward direction.
The next day, I repeated the same maneuver, helping to guide the bowel movement down and out of my body by gently applying pressure from inside my vagina.
Eventually, waste began passing out of my rectum without manual assistance. But now and then, by which I mean very often, the obstruction would reoccur, and no matter how much I strained, it seemed the stool would not pass through my rectum unless I stuck a finger into my vagina to help it along. It is almost unbelievable that I continued to utilize this "digital" system for so many years without telling a doctor about it. I think we generally have so much shame about our bowels that it is difficult to talk about them. Considering that I am one of those people who doesn't let my spouse enter or remain in the bathroom when I need to use the toilet, it makes sense that I would be reluctant to have a conversation about my toilet related activity with anyone.
Certainly, it is very odd and uncomfortable to be writing about this now, but I am inspired by the idea that I might help someone (or more than one) who is silently suffering as I recently was, unaware that this is a common condition called a rectocele.
When I returned home from seeing the urogynecologist, I didn't even know how to spell rectocele. I typed "rectoseal" into the search bar on my computer and eventually discovered the following definion on the Mayo Clinic website:
A rectocele occurs when the thin wall of fibrous tissue (fascia) separating the rectum from the vagina becomes weakened, allowing the front wall of the rectum to bulge into the vagina.
Reading more, I felt fortunate to understand that my rectosele was fairly mild. Some more severe rectoceles require surgery. In some cases, rectal tissue may obtrude from the vaginal opening, and some are quite painful. While I cannot entirely reverse or "cure" the damage caused by the tremendous pressure that was exerted on the fascia during childbirth, I hope to effect a significant improvement through my work in physical therapy. In addition to tightening and strengthening the muscles that control the sphincter of the bladder, I also hope that by doing repeated pelvic floor exercises, I will strengthen the pelvic floor muscles that wrap around the underside of my vagina and rectum, giving support to both.
I promise to tell you about the specifics of my first pelvic floor therapy appointment, and my homework assignment, in my very next post. Please stay tuned.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Kegels, Pessaries and Slings
When I finally confessed and complained to my female gynocologist about my unfortunate tendency to pee when I sneeze, slip, trip, cough or laugh, I had been dealing with it for almost seven years. Out of a combination of denial, wishful thinking and indignation, I refused to wear a pad, so for me, that meant seven years of too many trips to the dry cleaners. Seven years of embarrassment, inconvenience and humiliation that could very closely approach self-loathing.
After an errant sneeze produces a leak, I feel a wet spot in my clothing, and I wait for an opportune moment to sneak a downward peek at my crotch and inner thighs. Does it show? Will people smell it? How soon can I get home to change my clothes?
I used to think incontinence was only a problem for old people. I have long known that people with Alzheimer's eventually lose control of their bladder and bowels. Television commercials for adult diapers (like Depends) do not, so far as I know, feature women riding horseback or playing tennis the way tampon commercials do. Consequently, I never thought it was something people had to deal with in the prime of their life, while they were still premenopausal, very active, and otherwise fit.
A lovely older woman, who is no longer among the living and whose name I will respectfully withhold, coached my string quartet at the Manhattan School of Music the year I turned fifteen. In her prime, she had been a glamorous and sought after virtuoso, whom I had seen photographed in sparkling gowns, cradling her violin in her arms and gazing confidently into the camera. We worked together in a practice room, where she would walk around the four of us as we sat and tried to make beautiful music. When she would pass by me, or stop to adjust my shoulder or hand, her hips were close enough to my face that I detected a strong odor of stale urine.
It broke my heart that this woman, whom I so loved and admired, smelled so much like the stairs in the subway station. I assumed that if she could not prevent this unfortunate condition, then there must not be anything that a person could do about it. I know that this sensory memory of my quartet coach negatively affected my expectations when faced with my own stress incontinence at age 36. I know it is one of the reasons I remained silent as long as I did. It is one of the reasons I had so little hope.
I knew from the "what to expect" books that the way to strengthen pelvic floor muscles was to do Kegels, the same contraction exercises we are taught to do in preparation for labor. I did Kegels on command at the end of every prenatal water aerobics class, which I took in both Michigan and Ohio, where my second and third babies were born.
This is what I remember:
Five or six of us stand in a wide circle, neck deep in cool water, our distended bellies challenging the remaining elasticity of our maternity bathing suits. We giggle self-consciously as the teacher instructs us to clench the muscles of our posterior, and we try to follow, desperately hoping that we are doing ourselves some good. She tells us we should tape an index card to our rear view mirror reminding us "to Kegel" at stop lights, so I know they are important to do.
Somehow, though, I remain unaware that there is any point to "Kegels" other than physically preparing you to push your baby's head more effectively through what will feel like a blazing wall of fire. I remember from my first childbirth experience how frightening and painful this stage of delivery is, and the memory is enough to motivate me. Somewhere along the way, I also hear that it's good to have strong "Kegel" muscles after childbirth, too, and that it feels good for both partners when a woman "Kegels" during intercourse. But even in a circle of women in almost the same exact circumstances, there is very little discussion, in either the pool or the locker room, about our incontinence, a humiliating and inconvenient part of our shared experience. We are focused on labor and delivery, on how many weeks of pregnancy we each have left, on our weight gain, on whether we will nurse or bottle feed, on our hope of taking home a healthy baby. Nobody ever once mentions anything about peeing on herself.
When I brushed off my doctor's suggestion, a year ago, that I undergo "simple, bladder sling" surgery to get better support for my urethra, she told me there was just one other thing that could help. She was reluctant to recommend a pessary for me because I am sexually active, preferring to give them to elderly widows. But I was insistent that I needed an alternative to surgery, and assured her that I was willing to deal with considerable incovenience in order to avoid it. Explaining that I would have to remove it before having sex, my doctor reluctantly fit me for my a pessary, which is rather like a diaphragm with several holes in it, inserted into the vagina and positioned so as to restrict the movement of the urethra.
As I left her office with my new pessary in place, I was hopeful that the device would improve the situation enough to resolve the matter and turn my focus to more pleasant things. On my way out, my doctor urged me again to consider sling surgery, emphasizing that it was not elective, like a breast lift, but rather, quality of life. I could appreciate the disctinction. My husband had just undergone knee surgery for quality of life reasons, and that had been the right decision for him, with great results. But every surgery, no matter how "simple", involves risk.
Also, the fact that a torn flap of cartilage is painfully getting in the way of a moving joint is a very different thing to explain to patient than the fact that her urethra is insufficiently supported by her tired, over stretched muscles. For one thing, we are already familiar with the relatively simple, accessible anatomy of the knee, and if we don't "get it" from looking at the x-ray, there are charts, models and brochures all over an orthopedist's office to help make it very clear.
By contrast, we don't grow up looking at models of vaginas and bladders in our grade school science classrooms. As an English major, I never had to locate or identify a urethra on any test. Most of us don't spend a lot of time looking at these parts of our own anatomy. It's inconvenient, for one thing, requiring a mirror and specially angled lighting. Peeing, for girls and women, is fairly mysterious, at least compared to peeing for boys and men. Most of us learn where and how to insert a tampon, but there is never any reason to help a girl locate her urethra. We don't teacher our daughters to aim their stream at m & m's floating in the toilet; we just tell them to sit down and let it flow.
This is already a long post, so I will pick this story up again another time. I am busy doing my new pelvic floor exercises frequently, both the "quick flicks" and the "long holds", and I am very hopeful. The knowledge I received in just one physical therapy appointment exceeds anything I was ever told previously about the physiological cause and nature of my condition. In my next post, I will tell you more about that appointment and why I walked out of it feeling so very optimistic.
After an errant sneeze produces a leak, I feel a wet spot in my clothing, and I wait for an opportune moment to sneak a downward peek at my crotch and inner thighs. Does it show? Will people smell it? How soon can I get home to change my clothes?
I used to think incontinence was only a problem for old people. I have long known that people with Alzheimer's eventually lose control of their bladder and bowels. Television commercials for adult diapers (like Depends) do not, so far as I know, feature women riding horseback or playing tennis the way tampon commercials do. Consequently, I never thought it was something people had to deal with in the prime of their life, while they were still premenopausal, very active, and otherwise fit.
A lovely older woman, who is no longer among the living and whose name I will respectfully withhold, coached my string quartet at the Manhattan School of Music the year I turned fifteen. In her prime, she had been a glamorous and sought after virtuoso, whom I had seen photographed in sparkling gowns, cradling her violin in her arms and gazing confidently into the camera. We worked together in a practice room, where she would walk around the four of us as we sat and tried to make beautiful music. When she would pass by me, or stop to adjust my shoulder or hand, her hips were close enough to my face that I detected a strong odor of stale urine.
It broke my heart that this woman, whom I so loved and admired, smelled so much like the stairs in the subway station. I assumed that if she could not prevent this unfortunate condition, then there must not be anything that a person could do about it. I know that this sensory memory of my quartet coach negatively affected my expectations when faced with my own stress incontinence at age 36. I know it is one of the reasons I remained silent as long as I did. It is one of the reasons I had so little hope.
I knew from the "what to expect" books that the way to strengthen pelvic floor muscles was to do Kegels, the same contraction exercises we are taught to do in preparation for labor. I did Kegels on command at the end of every prenatal water aerobics class, which I took in both Michigan and Ohio, where my second and third babies were born.
This is what I remember:
Five or six of us stand in a wide circle, neck deep in cool water, our distended bellies challenging the remaining elasticity of our maternity bathing suits. We giggle self-consciously as the teacher instructs us to clench the muscles of our posterior, and we try to follow, desperately hoping that we are doing ourselves some good. She tells us we should tape an index card to our rear view mirror reminding us "to Kegel" at stop lights, so I know they are important to do.
Somehow, though, I remain unaware that there is any point to "Kegels" other than physically preparing you to push your baby's head more effectively through what will feel like a blazing wall of fire. I remember from my first childbirth experience how frightening and painful this stage of delivery is, and the memory is enough to motivate me. Somewhere along the way, I also hear that it's good to have strong "Kegel" muscles after childbirth, too, and that it feels good for both partners when a woman "Kegels" during intercourse. But even in a circle of women in almost the same exact circumstances, there is very little discussion, in either the pool or the locker room, about our incontinence, a humiliating and inconvenient part of our shared experience. We are focused on labor and delivery, on how many weeks of pregnancy we each have left, on our weight gain, on whether we will nurse or bottle feed, on our hope of taking home a healthy baby. Nobody ever once mentions anything about peeing on herself.
When I brushed off my doctor's suggestion, a year ago, that I undergo "simple, bladder sling" surgery to get better support for my urethra, she told me there was just one other thing that could help. She was reluctant to recommend a pessary for me because I am sexually active, preferring to give them to elderly widows. But I was insistent that I needed an alternative to surgery, and assured her that I was willing to deal with considerable incovenience in order to avoid it. Explaining that I would have to remove it before having sex, my doctor reluctantly fit me for my a pessary, which is rather like a diaphragm with several holes in it, inserted into the vagina and positioned so as to restrict the movement of the urethra.
As I left her office with my new pessary in place, I was hopeful that the device would improve the situation enough to resolve the matter and turn my focus to more pleasant things. On my way out, my doctor urged me again to consider sling surgery, emphasizing that it was not elective, like a breast lift, but rather, quality of life. I could appreciate the disctinction. My husband had just undergone knee surgery for quality of life reasons, and that had been the right decision for him, with great results. But every surgery, no matter how "simple", involves risk.
Also, the fact that a torn flap of cartilage is painfully getting in the way of a moving joint is a very different thing to explain to patient than the fact that her urethra is insufficiently supported by her tired, over stretched muscles. For one thing, we are already familiar with the relatively simple, accessible anatomy of the knee, and if we don't "get it" from looking at the x-ray, there are charts, models and brochures all over an orthopedist's office to help make it very clear.
By contrast, we don't grow up looking at models of vaginas and bladders in our grade school science classrooms. As an English major, I never had to locate or identify a urethra on any test. Most of us don't spend a lot of time looking at these parts of our own anatomy. It's inconvenient, for one thing, requiring a mirror and specially angled lighting. Peeing, for girls and women, is fairly mysterious, at least compared to peeing for boys and men. Most of us learn where and how to insert a tampon, but there is never any reason to help a girl locate her urethra. We don't teacher our daughters to aim their stream at m & m's floating in the toilet; we just tell them to sit down and let it flow.
This is already a long post, so I will pick this story up again another time. I am busy doing my new pelvic floor exercises frequently, both the "quick flicks" and the "long holds", and I am very hopeful. The knowledge I received in just one physical therapy appointment exceeds anything I was ever told previously about the physiological cause and nature of my condition. In my next post, I will tell you more about that appointment and why I walked out of it feeling so very optimistic.
Acknowledgment
When I do a kind or generous thing for someone, I am rarely motivated by the hope of an acknowledgment, but it always feels so very good to receive it.
I am always delighted when an old-fashioned, handwritten thank you note appears in my mailbox, brightening up the stack of bills and solicitations. Yesterday, though, I was deeply grateful for digital technology and the speed of communication that it has made possible. I want you all to know that I was, quite frankly, blown away by the enthusiastic response to my first post here on Vaginologue.
People who have never responded to any post on Unburied Treasure chose to write to me yesterday for the first time. I received private messages through facebook from people who are generally so silent that I had honestly forgotten they were among my facebook friends. I realize that it is uncomfortable to post comments publicly of such a personal nature as this blog invites, and I don't want to push anyone beyond their comfort zone. But what I learned yesterday is that it's not just myriad faceless women who are dealing with these issues in silence, it is you: my friends and readers. As Kristin wrote, below yesterday's post, the more women who tell their story, the more "normal" it becomes, thus increasing the likelihood that other women will seek medical help and improve their lives. This is precisely my goal.
I never imagined that one blogpost, especially a first blogpost, would bring such an outpouring of feedback. After having struggled with the decision to blog about my "female issues", I cannot imagine clearer confirmation that I made the right choice. Thank you so much for your words of encouragement and appreciation. It means a great deal to me. Know that you have fueled my mission here and that, as a result, I am committed to continuing to do my best to share my story with you.
I am always delighted when an old-fashioned, handwritten thank you note appears in my mailbox, brightening up the stack of bills and solicitations. Yesterday, though, I was deeply grateful for digital technology and the speed of communication that it has made possible. I want you all to know that I was, quite frankly, blown away by the enthusiastic response to my first post here on Vaginologue.
People who have never responded to any post on Unburied Treasure chose to write to me yesterday for the first time. I received private messages through facebook from people who are generally so silent that I had honestly forgotten they were among my facebook friends. I realize that it is uncomfortable to post comments publicly of such a personal nature as this blog invites, and I don't want to push anyone beyond their comfort zone. But what I learned yesterday is that it's not just myriad faceless women who are dealing with these issues in silence, it is you: my friends and readers. As Kristin wrote, below yesterday's post, the more women who tell their story, the more "normal" it becomes, thus increasing the likelihood that other women will seek medical help and improve their lives. This is precisely my goal.
I never imagined that one blogpost, especially a first blogpost, would bring such an outpouring of feedback. After having struggled with the decision to blog about my "female issues", I cannot imagine clearer confirmation that I made the right choice. Thank you so much for your words of encouragement and appreciation. It means a great deal to me. Know that you have fueled my mission here and that, as a result, I am committed to continuing to do my best to share my story with you.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
In the Beginning
This story is not just about vagina.
But of course, vagina is the starting point for every woman's story. By this, I don't mean to conflict with the belief that life begins at birth; or in the uterus, at the point of viability; or in the fallopian tube, at the point of encounter between sperm and ovum. No matter what you believe, when we are born, we are announced to the world on the basis of our vagina:
"IT'S A GIRL!" someone invariably exclaims, upon seeing it. And thus, we begin.
As far as I can recall, nobody ever spoke to me about my vagina when I was little.
My mother did teach me that the part of my body that I kept in my underpants was called the vulva. I knew it was private because my sister and I weren't allowed to walk around with it uncovered, no matter what. We grew up wearing underpants under our nightgowns. When I asked my mother how to make a baby, I remember being very specifically concerned about whether it was necessary to remove your underwear. She told me you didn't have to if you didn't want to.
I first learned my vulva was interesting to boys when Craig Barash, who sat next to me in the very back row of Mrs. Brown's third grade classroom at Birch Lane Elementary School, asked me to show it to him.
Craig was clever enough to start by asking me just to let him see my panties. I knew this overt fascination with panties must run in his family, because his father drove a big fancy car with the first vanity plate I had ever seen: SKIRTS. Once, when we driving right behind them, I asked my parents about it, and they told me it was because his father manufactured skirts for a living; the plastic, see-through kind. I could tell that my parents did not approve of this kind of skirt, or of Craig's parents. Even though we went to the same temple and Hebrew school and lived just a block away from each other on Bay Drive, we did not carpool with the Barashes and I was instructed never to go into their house. There was consequently an air of mystery around all the Barash family that thrilled and baffled me. I knew instinctively not to ask my parents any further questions about the peculiar skirts that Mr. Barash made, and a few more years would pass before I knew anything about the type of women who wore them.
I wore short (but opaque) dresses from Florence Eisemann or Chemise Lacoste as my Mommy-imposed school uniform from age 2 1/2 until sometime in the fifth grade. By about age five, my legs had grown too long to fit into tights, so Mommy switched me to wearing knee socks with my Mary Janes, which I owned in both black and white patent leather, as well as buttery leather, in brown or maroon. When I was standing or walking, I looked very prim and proper in my dress, my color coordinated knee socks, and my long, straight, brown hair tied up with a matching bow. But when I sat down in my low, little desk chair at school, the hem of the skirt invariably rode up pretty close to panty level, exposing long, white thighs that just barely fit under my desk.
It was no big deal to spread my knees apart, twist sideways in my seat, and let Craig see my panties. They were Carter's panties, with a pattern of little flowers scattered across the white, cotton fabric and a delicate, colorful rick-rack sort of trim at the leg. It made sense to me that if Carter's bothered to make panties that pretty, people should want to see them. From there, it was a fairly simple matter to reach in and pull down my panties, when Craig asked me to. As the youngest kid in the third grade, I was very happy for the attention. I was six years old at the time.
I'll return to Vaginologue soon and often to tell you more of the story of my vagina and its neighbors: uterus, urethra, and rectum. I'm forty four years old now, and yesterday, I started physical therapy for what those in the business like to call my pelvic floor. It was a pretty big deal for me to admit, to myself and then, to a doctor, that I have been having a problem "down there" ever since my youngest child was born.
The problem is this: I have been accidentally peeing on myself for the last eight years; every time I slip on an oil puddle in the garage, trip on the sidewalk, sneeze while walking, dance while having cocktails, or run more than about six steps. It was difficult for me to come out of my cloud of denial and wishful thinking to confront the fact that this problem was not going to go away by itself, no matter how many kegels I might remember to do at stop lights. It was extremely difficult to show up at physical therapy yesterday and allow a stranger to help me begin to do something about it.
Having now taken those first steps, however, it is my lofty hope that with this blog, I can be of service to other women by sharing my experience in working to correct a problem from which I know so many of you also suffer. My personal goal is to strengthen the muscles that control urinary flow so that they do their job the way they used to, before I pushed three big babies out into the world through my vagina. I want to continue my very active lifestyle, but in such a way that the only thing I am soaked in is sweat, and in which I pee only when I consciously give myself permission to do so. I now have a list of daily exercises to perform as homework before my next appointment on Wednesday, so I'm going to go and get those done. I'll see you back here in a little while.
But of course, vagina is the starting point for every woman's story. By this, I don't mean to conflict with the belief that life begins at birth; or in the uterus, at the point of viability; or in the fallopian tube, at the point of encounter between sperm and ovum. No matter what you believe, when we are born, we are announced to the world on the basis of our vagina:
"IT'S A GIRL!" someone invariably exclaims, upon seeing it. And thus, we begin.
As far as I can recall, nobody ever spoke to me about my vagina when I was little.
My mother did teach me that the part of my body that I kept in my underpants was called the vulva. I knew it was private because my sister and I weren't allowed to walk around with it uncovered, no matter what. We grew up wearing underpants under our nightgowns. When I asked my mother how to make a baby, I remember being very specifically concerned about whether it was necessary to remove your underwear. She told me you didn't have to if you didn't want to.
I first learned my vulva was interesting to boys when Craig Barash, who sat next to me in the very back row of Mrs. Brown's third grade classroom at Birch Lane Elementary School, asked me to show it to him.
Craig was clever enough to start by asking me just to let him see my panties. I knew this overt fascination with panties must run in his family, because his father drove a big fancy car with the first vanity plate I had ever seen: SKIRTS. Once, when we driving right behind them, I asked my parents about it, and they told me it was because his father manufactured skirts for a living; the plastic, see-through kind. I could tell that my parents did not approve of this kind of skirt, or of Craig's parents. Even though we went to the same temple and Hebrew school and lived just a block away from each other on Bay Drive, we did not carpool with the Barashes and I was instructed never to go into their house. There was consequently an air of mystery around all the Barash family that thrilled and baffled me. I knew instinctively not to ask my parents any further questions about the peculiar skirts that Mr. Barash made, and a few more years would pass before I knew anything about the type of women who wore them.
I wore short (but opaque) dresses from Florence Eisemann or Chemise Lacoste as my Mommy-imposed school uniform from age 2 1/2 until sometime in the fifth grade. By about age five, my legs had grown too long to fit into tights, so Mommy switched me to wearing knee socks with my Mary Janes, which I owned in both black and white patent leather, as well as buttery leather, in brown or maroon. When I was standing or walking, I looked very prim and proper in my dress, my color coordinated knee socks, and my long, straight, brown hair tied up with a matching bow. But when I sat down in my low, little desk chair at school, the hem of the skirt invariably rode up pretty close to panty level, exposing long, white thighs that just barely fit under my desk.
It was no big deal to spread my knees apart, twist sideways in my seat, and let Craig see my panties. They were Carter's panties, with a pattern of little flowers scattered across the white, cotton fabric and a delicate, colorful rick-rack sort of trim at the leg. It made sense to me that if Carter's bothered to make panties that pretty, people should want to see them. From there, it was a fairly simple matter to reach in and pull down my panties, when Craig asked me to. As the youngest kid in the third grade, I was very happy for the attention. I was six years old at the time.
I'll return to Vaginologue soon and often to tell you more of the story of my vagina and its neighbors: uterus, urethra, and rectum. I'm forty four years old now, and yesterday, I started physical therapy for what those in the business like to call my pelvic floor. It was a pretty big deal for me to admit, to myself and then, to a doctor, that I have been having a problem "down there" ever since my youngest child was born.
The problem is this: I have been accidentally peeing on myself for the last eight years; every time I slip on an oil puddle in the garage, trip on the sidewalk, sneeze while walking, dance while having cocktails, or run more than about six steps. It was difficult for me to come out of my cloud of denial and wishful thinking to confront the fact that this problem was not going to go away by itself, no matter how many kegels I might remember to do at stop lights. It was extremely difficult to show up at physical therapy yesterday and allow a stranger to help me begin to do something about it.
Having now taken those first steps, however, it is my lofty hope that with this blog, I can be of service to other women by sharing my experience in working to correct a problem from which I know so many of you also suffer. My personal goal is to strengthen the muscles that control urinary flow so that they do their job the way they used to, before I pushed three big babies out into the world through my vagina. I want to continue my very active lifestyle, but in such a way that the only thing I am soaked in is sweat, and in which I pee only when I consciously give myself permission to do so. I now have a list of daily exercises to perform as homework before my next appointment on Wednesday, so I'm going to go and get those done. I'll see you back here in a little while.
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